‘And it is perhaps not so necessary that I do so, because Joan has told me of another who may like to say I am the daughter of Mary Remenham. Brown or Jones, I dare say. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco.
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